


I'm Not Calling You A Ghost

by KatStratford



Series: Bucky Barnes, Patron Saint of Desperate Nurses [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Patron Saint of Desperate Nurses, Comfort Sex, F/M, POV Second Person, Ruth the nurse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatStratford/pseuds/KatStratford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s really no good reason for you to have believed he’d be here other than you’d already tucked the rubbers into the top of your nylons. “I was hopin’.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Calling You A Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [don't talk to strangers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587563) by [sevenfoxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfoxes/pseuds/sevenfoxes). 



> Continuing where Sevenfoxes left off with [Bucky and the nurse.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1587563/chapters/7446740)

You light the field lantern but don’t even have time to finish unpinning your cap before he trips through the tent flap. You’d think, being used to the sound of mortar fire and the wailing wounded, that you’d be professional enough not to jump in surprise. Nope. Luckily he misses it, still stumbling over his untied boots.

“Damnit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair and giving you a tired smile. “Wouldja believe I used to be known for my dance moves?”

“I used to bake,” you reply, like that’s not a complete nonsense answer.

“Yeah?” he says, smile growing wider. “Where’re you from, uh.” He drags out the “r” sound like doing it’s going to jog his memory. It doesn’t, and he throws his hands up in frustration and embarrassment.

You slap a hand over your mouth to cover your grin. It would’ve made you mad, once upon a time, if a guy who’d had his hand in your drawers forgot your name. Now, it’s hilarious. “Ruth,” you say and, belatedly remembering the first part of his sentence, “Paramus. Ruth from Paramus.”

He’s the one biting back a laugh now. “What?” you say.

“Nothin’. I just...I had this idea that all the nurses were from the midwest. Like, uh, they grew ‘em in the cornfields or something.”

The conversation seems to have gotten away from both of you, but you’re laughing harder than you have since you boarded a ship for England a year ago, so it’s not exactly uncomfortable.

He toes out of his boots and walks over to you, still chuckling and looking at you like you’re the first bright star on a winter night. “Ruth from Paramus,” he says. “I’m Bucky from Brooklyn.” He pauses, then says, “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“Oh.” You blush. “I heard you in the medical tent, arguing with the big guy. Captain America, I guess?”

“Yeah, I saw you hurrying by,” he says and it hits you low in the gut that he kept an eye on you. “I told him I didn’t want the bed, though.”

“I, uh.” There’s really no good reason for you to have believed he’d be here other than you’d already tucked the rubbers into the top of your nylons. “I was hopin’.”

“Yeah?” His eyes have gone soft and you sway forward to catch his mouth. He kisses you even slower now that you have a smidgen of privacy, his lips soft and his tongue touching quick along the edges of your mouth. He’s had a bath, so you breathe him in. He smells of cigarettes and aftershave and something like freshly turned dirt. You want to wrap him around you like a blanket and never let go.

He raises his hands to your hair and you grab his wrists before realizing what a terrible idea that is. He goes stiff and violently yanks his arms back. His head is down and his breathing is rushed and ragged. 

He says “sorry” at the same time you do, and you barrel right on with, “My hair undone would be suspicious, not that I don’t want...I didn’t mean to.” You kiss him again to keep from making more of an idiot of yourself, and your heart stops jackrabbiting as he slowly relaxes against you.

This time he brings his hands to the front of your uniform, and you ignore the way his hands are shaking until the second time he loses his grip on your top button. You take his hands in yours and kiss his knuckles, the backs of his hands, and he huffs a noise that you decide is a laugh. “Used to be better at this too,” he murmurs. 

“Still pretty good,” you say, tipping your head up and giving him your best sultry look. It’s probably not that great; there’s a reason you’re a nurse, not an actress, but he looks at you like you’re Ingrid Bergman, and you have to press your mouth to his again.

Together, the two of you get the top of your uniform unbuttoned. He puts one hand in yours and the other low on your back, like you’re really dancing, and leads you over to the cot in the tent’s corner.

“This okay?” he asks, sitting and pulling you down next to him. In response you reach up to the band of your stockings, grab the foil-wrapped packages there and slap them into his hand.

He slumps over until his face is pressed into your neck. You’re glad he’s not looking at you, but it’s also nice to feel him smiling against your skin. “Ruth from Paramus,” he says, kissing your shoulder and shuffling lower on the mattress. “You are my favorite person in Italy.”

He’s not the first man to tell you that, but he is the first one who hasn’t been covered in blood at the time.

“Tell me,” he breathes, mouth and fingers moving along the edge of your bra. “Tell me if. If you want it or not, just, I just.”

You press your fingers to his mouth to stop him and shuffle out of your brassiere in answer. “Shh,” you warn as he moans against your breast. “Shh, yes, shh.” You think he’ll keep going, get your uniform off, make use of the rubbers. But instead he softly kisses over what feels like every bit of bare skin on your chest. You hold the sides of his face and shake as he licks delicately around your nipples and slowly drags the stubble on his chin over the underside of your breast. It’s so good that you feel tears pricking at the edges of your eyes. 

“Bucky,” you whisper desperately. “C’mere. Let me.” You fumble down to the hem of his undershirt, pulling until he raises his arms with a hiss of pain and lets you pull the shirt over his head. His side is bandaged, and the bruises over his chest and arms aren’t as bad as they’d looked yesterday. You avoid all of that and run your fingertips over his soft belly, smiling when he shivers and gasps against your skin.

He keeps kissing you as you both shuffle carefully out of the last of your clothes, his shirt and your uniform ending up draped over your bodies. You press a hand to his hip and wrap the other around his hard cock, noting the strong beat of his pulse under his skin.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he whispers against your mouth as you rub him gently. “That’s so nice, sweetheart.” His hand presses at the junction of your thighs, and you carefully raise your knee until it rests on his hip. You feel like you’ve been wet and swollen since he first kissed you yesterday and you’re already shivering when he touches you. A few gentle strokes of his fingers and you’re coming, crying out softly into his mouth.

He reaches behind himself and grabs a rubber. You kiss his face as he unwraps it and rolls it on, absurdly grateful that he’s not making any ridiculous promises about sending you letters or finding you after the war.

He presses into you slowly and it’s so sweet and welcome that you feel your whole body wilt with pleasure. Bucky seems to have gone equally uncoordinated, his hands opening and closing against your skin. “Not gonna last long,” he mutters into your neck.

“Not a problem,” you reply, running your hands over his back in long, soothing strokes. “Go ahead, baby.” You close your eyes and breathe in the scent of his hair as he jolts against you, wrap your arms tight around him as he shudders and whines through his climax.

You stay silent and still for a few moments, but as soon as he reaches for the condom, you sit up and shake out your uniform. You’re tucking yourself back into your bra and looking for your panties when he says, “Not staying, huh?” with a ghost of the smile he’d given you in the field. He thinks he’s joking, but you know better.

“The captain was right, you really do need the sleep,” you say gently, and right on cue, he yawns widely. You stand with a smile and pick up the blanket at the bottom of the cot along with your recovered panties. “Tuck in, soldier.”

“Mmm,” he mutters, eyes already half closed. “I guess we do take off for England at 0600 tomorrow.”

You carefully settle the blanket around him, folding it to give his wounded ribs a little bit of cushioning. Without thinking you say, “I got a girlfriend in England. Lost her husband in the Blitz. Maybe you could take her a letter for me?”

He opens one eye and screws up his face, and yeah, he knows exactly what you’re doing. You do it anyway. “Her name’s Jane. She’s seemed kinda lonely the last couple of times I’ve heard from her.”

Bucky chuckles and yawns again. “Yeah,” he says. “Find me in the morning. I’ll take your friend a letter, sure.”


End file.
